I'm back from the war, I'm here all alone, I've been bleeding too
by skyfallat221b
Summary: When Clint comes home from an undercover mission to find Natasha gone, SHIELD gone, and all his Avengers life gone... He feels like his entire world has just come crashing down. /!\ CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER SPOILERS. /!\
1. Chapter 1

This is largely inspired by the song 'LONESOME RIDER' by Volbeat, which is where the title of this fic comes from.  
Hurt!Clint is my little baby, and seeing him broken and hurt is a thing that I love too.  
He's not mine, though, I'm just borrowing him to make him go through a little hell.

* * *

"Tasha?"

He knocked again. "Natasha?" he asked, once more. No answer.

Shifting his weight to his right leg – where it didn't hurt too much – he sighed, as he pulled out a set of keys, and juggled with them in one hand, trying to find the right one. He couldn't move his other arm, as it was bandaged in a surgical cast.

"Damn!" he barked as the keys dropped to the floor. He sighed as he stood, defeated in front of the door, watching the keys lie, down there. The silence behind the door was unnerving – even more so when he hadn't heard from anybody for days.

He pushed his left leg back so he didn't have to bend it as he bent forward to pick up the keys, and he puffed when he felt what seemed to be a knife hurt his lungs. He didn't worry too much, though, since it was just his chipped rib.

He was banged up. Pretty banged up, actually. As he caught the keys with his fingers, he managed to find the right one, and soon opened the door to Natasha's safe-house.

He'd been undercover in Europe, had managed to get the twins out of the Baron's custody, but at a price. Unlike the Hulk, Clint was just a regular human being. Actually, he was more or less the only normal human being on the Avengers team: Steve had the super serum, which made him strong and big and just too fit to be real. Tony had the arc reactor in his chest, which made him special but vulnerable too. But it made him more strong than vulnerable, actually. Bruce, well, he had the Hulk. Thor was a God from another world, so he didn't even qualify as human. Natasha had been under the radar of the scientists of the Red Room, and he wasn't even sure if she qualified as human.

All he was, was a regular guy who got beat up a little too much on a mission, and ended up in a regular hospital for a couple of weeks until they let him take a plane home. A fractured rib, that had perforated his lung when the damage had happened; the radius and the ulna (the bones of his forearm) had been broken in two and had rendered him unable to nock an arrow off his bow for a little while; a sprained ankle that made him limp around when he didn't act like he wasn't in pain; and more than everything, he'd gotten two black eyes, one of which still roamed around, even weeks after the damage.

As he walked into Natasha's flat, he noticed that everything was covered in a slight coat of dust. She hadn't been here for a little while. This was odd. Pulling out his phone, with a slight wince, he dialled her number.

"This is Natasha Romanoff's number, please leav-"

He hung up before she reached the end of voicemail. Frowning, he sighed again. "Where are you, Natasha?"

He looked around, and down at his phone. It had been issued by SHIELD, but somehow had stopped working about two weeks prior, so he'd had to buy a new SIM card in France to make it work (even though they'd been able to keep him his number). And the same had happened when he'd had to book the flight home – nobody had been there to extract him, or bring him back, or even tell him to get on this or that plane. So, he'd booked a flight home to New York, and when he'd wanted to make the payment with SHIELD's business card, as usual, it had been refused. After two tries, the lady behind the counter had asked if he didn't have any other methods of payment, so he'd paid cash.

There was something wrong. Moving further inside the flat, he tried to notice anything, just, anything, that would indicate where she'd gone. Where his life had gone, actually. There were some SHIELD issued clothes on the floor, where they'd been left behind, in a bundle. But some of her stuff was still here.

Where was SHIELD? Where was Natasha? Where was Fury? Or any of the other agents?

Heaving, Clint had to sit down on the edge of the sofa, to catch his breath again.

"Fucking hell, where are you all?" he seethed through his gritted teeth, as he looked up, around the flat, looking for just one little clue. He could feel the pain through his body, cursing in his veins, and he could feel his heart shudder at the thought that maybe he'd been pushed out of SHIELD.

Maybe the mission had just been a way for Fury to get rid of Clint, dumping him in the middle of a mission in the middle of nowhere, and then they'd cut the ombilical chord. Maybe that's what he'd deserved.

After New York. After Loki. Maybe they didn't trust him, even though they'd all said they did. Even if he'd gotten the job done, and gotten the twins to safety. Maybe that's why all of his SHIELD technology was failing him.

Why he'd had to abandon his bow with an old friend in France because safety measures for civilians didn't allow weapons on board. Even in the suitcase.

He'd come home completely naked.

Sitting on the edge of Natasha's sofa, he felt pain rise through his chest. Spreading like a sore hurt, out to his knuckles, and the edge of his fingers.

Pushing himself up, he moved to Natasha's bedroom. The bed was perfectly made, probably from the last time she'd been there.

Where was she?

Nobody was answering any of his emails, texts, calls... Hell, he'd even sent a postcard from Paris to SHIELD, hoping someone would answer him. It was complete radio silence.

Just like that time his brother had helped him get to the circus, and had abandoned him. Leaving him all alone.

Miserable.

Lonely.

But most of all, feeling betrayed.

He could feel his heart move up his neck, and his throat, to the edge of his mouth, and he could feel the sadness limping, crawling its way from his heart, where he knew it to be true, all the way to his head.

SHIELD had banished him. They'd moved headquarters, Natasha had gone with them, and nobody wanted anything to do with him anymore.

There was no other explanation.

He limped towards the bed, and sat down, gently on it, afraid to disturb the heavy silence in the room. The keys fell from his fingers, down onto the floor, in a sweet jingle. He bent forward, ignoring the pain and the strain in his chest from his broken ribs.

And, he let it all out. He'd come home in the hopes that at least one SHIELD agent would greet him.

One.

Just one little agent.

He wouldn't have cared if it had been a trainee.

But he'd come home to nothing.

The silent sobs that shook his body pulled at his stitches, and he could feel the tears come. Clint wasn't the type to cry.

He could be tortured, he could be stabbed, he could be on the verge of death, and he would never cry.

However, right now?

Right now he had nothing.

He had no money, no home (his safehouse was in Chicago), no friends, no contacts, no food. Not even his bow.

He felt the tears trickle down his face, as he suppressed the sobs, knowing full well that it wouldn't help to cry.

But the pain, during the last months, the effort, the pressure of being good enough for SHIELD after Loki, the effort of fitting in, of doing his best, of hitting every single target, of getting the twins out, of getting home...

For nothing.

SHIELD was gone, and he was alone again.

In his head, the thoughts moved too fast for him to think clearly. He could already imagine himself on the streets, wondering around, trying to figure out how to work a day job, how to get to Chicago, get his stuff. But what if SHIELD had condemned his safe-house? They probably had.

If they'd cut him out, they would've emptied all his stashes, taken all his stuff.

He inhaled deeply, as he pushed himself up, so that he could lie down on the bed, face first into the pillow.

Grasping it with his healthy hand, he pulled the pillow closer, all the way to his face. His pushed it against the fabric, inhaling the faint scent that he recognized as Natasha's. When he pulled the pillow back from his face, he saw that the wetness of the tears had darkened the deep blue fabric even more, and he closed his eyes.

He didn't say a word. He curled himself up in foetal position, holding the pillow as tight as his body allowed it, and he stayed there.

Crying silently, he thought back on everything. Loki. Coulson's death. His mission. SHIELD. Disappointment. Weariness. Distrust. Natasha. Jokes that now made sense.

It all made sense.

And it hurt so much more than a broken arm, a chipped rib, or a black eye.

So much more.

* * *

Sorry for this 3  
Reviews, kudos or about anything else (including slapping me in the face) are greatly appreciated 3


	2. Chapter 2

**This may not be a good continuation, BUT I SWEAR TO GOD CLINT'LL GET BETTER OK.**

* * *

It takes Natasha a little over a week to find Clint.

When she comes home, after having hacked the last signal on his phone through one of Stark's computers, she doesn't expect to find him like this. His phone's battery had died out, so she'd lost the signal.

When she comes home, after having made sure that he hadn't move on, she doesn't expect to find him like this. He'd blocked out the sun with the blinds, and pulled out all electronic devices from the plugs.

When she comes home, after having run from every single intelligence agency, she doesn't expect to find him like this. He'd pushed every single piece of furniture away from the bed, he'd torn the pillows.

And he's sitting, in the corner of the bedroom, his head hidden behind his arms. He doesn't move when she comes in. She moves slowly, so she doesn't startle him.

At first sight, she notices the phone, broken, shattered, because he probably threw it against the wall when it diverted to voice mail.

Then, she notices the trail of blood, that leads all the way up to where he's sitting. And he still doesn't move.

"Clint." She says his name, but he doesn't move. She sees the plaster around his arm, and she knows that the intel SHIELD had given her about him had been wrong, or at least, not up to date. 'He made it out alive,' they'd told her. 'He'll come back in one piece.' And she hadn't worried. Because she knew that Clint would do everything in his power to come back to her.

She'd hoped that he'd be alright. Knowing he would be alright. Because Clint was always alright. The only time she'd seen him vulnerable had been after Loki's mindcontrol.

"Clint, I'm coming closer." She says it, for her, for him. So that he doesn't leash out at her, thinking of her as the enemy. He still doesn't move. She looks down at the ripped feathers, and the blood patterns on the floor.

"What did you do?" she asks, as she gently leans down against the wall, near him.

Not near enough to touch him, as he would probably end up startled. But near enough for him to feel her presence. Feel her warmth, and smell the sweet perfume he's grown to know.

There is no response to her presence.

Nothing.

Not a single muscle twitches, not a single intake of breath.

And, for all she knows, he could be dead.

But he's not. Because she notices the sweat pearling on his neckline, soaking the back of his t-shirt. She respects his silence. And she knows he's listening, even if he's far away. For a couple of minutes, she doesn't say anything. She doesn't comment on the blood that worries her. She doesn't comment on the fact that she can see he's lost weight, very recently. She doesn't comment on the fact that he's torn her appartment upside down.

Because she knows. He was looking for a clue.

Maybe just a little tiny clue as to where she'd gone. As to where SHIELD had gone. As to where Fury had gone.

And he hadn't found anything.

She just sits there, her head resting against the wall behind her. Eyes closed. It's been the first time in weeks where there's just silence around her. She can't hear Clint's breathing. She hears nothing.

After a couple of minutes, she bends gently forward, and undoes the necklace she's been wearing for every hour of every day ever since he gave it to her.

She undoes it, and gently hangs it around his knuckle.

But he still doesn't move.

…

…

"I'll come back later," she says, after a while, when he still doesn't move.

She gets up, knowing that when he's like this, there's nothing to do.

She gets up, knowing that when he's like this, there's no use for trying to get through to him.

She gets up, knowing that when he's like this, there's nobody in the world who'll make him move.

So she walks away.

Closing the door behind her.

Silent.

And, as she closes the door, Clint looks up from his hiding place and clutches the necklace tight.


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe some small trigger warnings: scratching, mention of mental disorder. But that's it.  
as always, the characters aren't mine. If they were, I'd never treat them like this. Ever.

It's not like it was his fault. After Loki, he'd had a lot of trouble being on his own. Completely on his own. He needed someone to hold on to, and when Natasha had vanished from his life, he'd broken down.

For all he knew, she could have been dead. For all he knew, she could've been killed by the Winter Soldier. But she'd come back to him. She'd handed him the necklace she'd worn when she came back to him.

And she'd left.

Because she knew that just seeing her would help him get out of the limbo he'd gotten himself into.

However, he stayed in the corner of the room for a couple of hours more. He stayed there, as he counted his breathing.

In.

One, two, three.

Hold.

One, two, three.

Out.

Repeat.

It's a couple of hours later that he pushes his legs out. Reveals his arms to himself. They're scratched, and the scabs are already appearing. He can feel the pain surging through his entire body, and the famine in his stomach from his fasting.

He can feel his body starting to function again, as his brain manages to connect with his soul.

The doctors had said that this would happen. When he'd been in therapy. He'd developped a depersonalization disorder, combined with the post traumatic stress disorder.

And, soon, his entire mind came back to him, like Natasha had unlocked the ways into his soul. He pieced everything together, and pushed himself up. He had a distant look in his eyes. But Natasha had been there. She was alive. She hadn't been killed.

She was alright. So that meant that he wasn't alone. She was still there.

Staggering to his feet, he held his head against the wall, feeling his heartrate suddenly elevate, as he'd been sitting down for hours and hours. When he felt the blood rush to his legs diminish, he let out a long sigh, concentrating on getting to the bathroom.

Breathe, Clint.

One.

Two.

Three.

One step after the other, holding onto the walls. Natasha gave him the necklace. She was alright. She was alive.

One step more.

Natasha was waiting for him.

He got to the bathroom. Ignoring his reflection in the mirror, he got into the shower, and turned on the tap.

The water was freezing, but he didn't care.

One.

Two.

Three.

It slowly warmed up, and he felt the blood rush off his body, he felt the sting against his own wounds. He cleaned the blood and skin from under his fingernails by biting them down. He pulled off his shirt, and threw it in the corner of the bathroom. He didn't care about the surgical plaster holding his arm together. They'd find someone to change it for him.

Breathing in, he counted the seconds spent under the warm water.

Fifty two, fifty three, fifty four, fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty.

Looking up, he gazed at the showerhead. It took him another sixty five seconds to get out of the shower.

Then, he gazed into the mirror. He barely recognized the reflexion. But he knew he'd get over it. It was like the first times after Loki. He'd gone into shock. Had stayed silent. Refused to speak. Then Natasha had managed to get through to him. And he'd been cleared for duty.

Pulling himself up again, he got out of the shower, and went for the bedroom again. He'd throw everything out of the closet in a fit of rage, but he found clean clothes soon again. Holding the necklace in the palm of his hand, he fumbled around for a little while before getting clean and dry clothes onto his body.

Looking around, he sighed at the trail of blood he'd left as he'd cried, screamed and scratched in desperation.

But Natasha was alright. She was alive.

So he'd be too.

He got to the front door, and looked down at the arrow necklace. A faint smile appeared on his lips.

And he pushed the door open.

Natasha was _alright_.

She was _alive_.

And she was waiting for him in the corridor. She had a smile on her face. A shy one. But it was there. She went for him, got closer to him, pulled him into a hug.

"Tasha?"

"You're _alright_ Clint," she whispered. "You're _alive_."

She let go of him, and pushed his chin up, so she could look him into the eye. "I'm here."

Pause.

"I'm here."

He lifted his hand, and waited for her to take the necklace. Taking it, she turned her back and waited for him to close it in her neckline. He did. When she turned around, she was smiling again. He tried, too. Succeeded, by the looks of it.

"Now, let's get you cleaned up," was all she said.

If you ever wanna get in touch with me, you can always find me over on AO3 under the same URL as here. I'm a more regular poster there (it's an easier formatting). And, if all else fails, come poke at me on tumblr, same url as here as well.

Thanks for reading 3


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